


What Is It About

by agentandromeda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: completely unrealistic characters, excessive use of texting, nonactualized homoerotic subtext, so basically an actual sherlock episode, unnecessary gun subplot, unrealistic plot escalation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:11:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentandromeda/pseuds/agentandromeda
Summary: Just some Sherlock word vomit I found in an old writing journal. I typed it out verbatim for my groupchat's amusement so any errors are past me's fault, not mine. Also blame my friend for the title I told everyone that the next chat sent would be the title of the fic so





	What Is It About

Bang! Bang! Bang! John stormed down the stairs into the sitting room, fuming.  
“Sherlock!” he yelled, “how the HELL did you find my gun?!”  
“You always hide things under the loose plank in your room,” the bored detective snapped back, “it wasn’t hard.” John sighed. This was getting ridiculous. There had been no cases for a week, and the wall now resembled swiss cheese. He had tried to get Sherlock to find a new outlet for his boredom, but to no avail. Finally, the previous night, he had hidden the gun in his room—and now Sherlock had found it!  
“Sherlock,” he sighed, “you have to stop going through my stuff. It’s a violation of privacy. Now give me my gun. I need to hide it somewhere else.”  
“I’ll just find it again,” Sherlock pointed out, “and my shooting the wall isn't a problem. Since when do Mycroft and Lestrade enforce laws against me?”  
“Remember the banana cream pie incident?” John asked.  
“Well its’s not MY fault,” Sherlock pouted. “How was I supposed to know there was something in the oven?” Without replying, John stalked over to Sherlock and snatched the gun out of his hand before climbing the stairs to his room, calling over his shoulder,  
“Challenge accepted, Sherlock!” The game is on, thought Sherlock with a smirk.

John paused inside the doorframe, pondering where he could hide the gun without a certain sociopath finding it. The answer came to him as he looked at his laundry pile. Smiling, he closed the door and tucked the gun inside of his blue jumper in his dresser, the one that Sherlock detested almost as much as Moriarty. Grinning, he walked back downstairs, just as Sherlock’s phone rang.  
“It’s Lestrade!” he shouted in delight. “Finally, a case!” Whew! though John.

“Give me the summary, Lestrade,” snapped Sherlock as he strided to the DI in front of the modest flat.  
Letstrade explained, “The victim, Henry P. Morris, was found dead in the sitting room of his flat by his landlord, Peter Harolds. He was hit over the head with a small blunt object which we have been unable to identify. Forensics has determined that the body has been there for 3 days, since Saturday morning. Currently, the postman is the prime suspect, as he held a grudge against Henry due to money problems. Nobody else has entered the flat except Henry himself, according to his landlord. Henry was single with a job as a secretary. The weapon has not been found, and we have nothing to go on.”  
“Let me see the body, and then I’ll ask about the suspect,” Sherlock ordered. Henry was lying on his couch, sprawled out. He looked as though he was sleeping at first glance, until you noticed the horrible head wounds. John moved in to inspect the body, while Sherlock gave a description of the murderer that, according to Lestrade, fit the postman to a T.  
“Sherlock,” said John, “this body has been here since Sunday.”  
“I knew it,” Sherlock groaned, “ever since you said it was forensics, and by extension Anderson, who can up with Saturday.”

Back at Baker Street, after deducing that the killer was the landlord (no post on Sundays), Sherlock was lost in thought. Not about the case—it warranted barely a 4—but about the gun. He knew it was in John’s room, but nothing else. He decided that there was nothing for it but to search the room while John was at the clinic tomorrow. John, however, was one step ahead. Thanks to a childhood with his nosy and bossy sister, he could be sneaky when he wanted. And the gun was in the last place Sherlock would look.

The moment John left the flat, Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran up the stairs and into John’s impeccably tidy room. If you were John, he thought, where would you hide something? He growled and shook his head at this thought. Empathy was decidedly no use in this situation. Time to do what he did best. Taking a deep breath, he turned in a slow circle, analyzing every aspect of the room, before arriving at a conclusion. He strode over to the dresser and yanked the top drawer open. He smiled, a triumphant grin of victory, and lifted up the hideous blue monstrosity of a jumper. Nothing. His triumph turned to bewilderment, and then to supreme irritation. John had fooled him! That wasn’t supposed to happen! Just then, his phone buzzed. It was a text from John. He read it and responded.  
Have you found it yet? -JW  
Maybe… -SH  
Did I get you with the jumper? -JW  
lol no -SH  
When you use textspeak, I know you’re lying. -JW  
Okay, I thought it would never happen, but you got me. -SH  
But only for a second. -SH  
Ha! -JW  
Shut up. -SH

Sherlock huffed in irritation and turned off his phone. Where would John have hidden it? Somewhere that Sherlock wouldn’t go often. And judging from the humor in John’s tone when he spoke (or texted) of the place, it had something to do with sleep or food, neither of which he used much. Since he highly doubted it was in his bed…To the kitchen!

When he entered the kitchen, he immediately noticed that the rightmost cupboard, the one that contained only flour and was never used. He strode over to it and yanked it open, immediately rewarded with the sight of the smooth metal. He picked up the gun and and smirked. John couldn’t hide anything from him. Idly, he pointed it at the wall and pulled the trigger—and a small flame came out of the tip. Sherlock gaped at the gun in his hands. How could John fooled him? The solution came to him after a minute of thought—although John was not good at using his methods, he knew Sherlock, and where he would look. He decided to wait until John came home—then he could deduce where the gun was. His fingers were itching with boredom. Sighing, he picked up his laptop, sat down, and started to play Solitaire. After about 10 minutes and 5 games, his phone buzzed with a text from John.

Did u find the lighter yet? -JW  
Of course. -SH  
I got it from SY. Was from ASiP. -JW  
What? How did you get it? -SH  
Make a deduction -JW  
…Lestrade will hear from me about this -SH  
You’ll never guess where the gun is -JW  
I don’t guess. I observe. -SH  
You won’t find it. -JW

Sherlock glanced up at the clock. It was only 3:00! Two whole hours until John came back. It may as well be two years. He texted Lestrade:

Any cases? -SH  
No. -GL  
Why the hell are you putting a G in front of the L? -SH  
That’s my first initial. -GL  
Your name is Fred. -SH  
God, Sherlock. It’s Greg. -GL  
Oh. -SH  
You know I’ll call you if we get a case. -GL  
Fine -SH

Sherlock threw himself into his chair and turned on the telly. He idly flicked through the channels until he found the news. He idly watched news of the stock market and african wars scroll across the screen, until that faded into a BREAKING NEWS! headline. A female announcer came on, telling the audience about some boring shooting at a clinic…Wait a minute. That was not boring, especially because…OH. MY. GOD. Sherlock’s breath stopped. Within seconds, he was out the door and in a taxi to the site of the shooting—John’s workplace. His phone was buzzing.  
Get over here! We have a case. -GL  
OM W -SH  
Who’s hurt? saw on Telly. Headed 2 clinic -SH  
We don’t know. Whole please is in chaos. -GL  
Find John. -SH  
We’ll try. Lots of rubble. Several grenades. -GL  
OMG -SH  
Never thought I’d see u text that. -GL

Sherlock sat back in the backseat and tried to calm his breathing. Just as he was beginning to panic, a text arrived. 

I’m okay, sort of. In hospital now. Broken ankle. -JW  
OM W to crime scene. What happened? -SH  
Not sure. They had some sort of gas. I don’t remember much. -JW  
Moriarty. -SH  
Most likely -JW

 

Sherlock threw down the phone in a fit of bad temper. He viciously stalked over to the kitchen and began opening cupboards and boxes, searching for the gun, cigarettes, whatever. The next hour was torture. He flopped around the flat like a dying fish, vainly searching for something to alleviate his boredom. Then, the beautiful sound of his phone ringing resounded through the flat. Sherlock


End file.
